


i can't move the mountains for you

by attonitos_gloria



Series: like a shadow or a friend [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Family Feels, Headcanon, Other, The Knight of the Laughing Tree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 21:42:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attonitos_gloria/pseuds/attonitos_gloria
Summary: Lyanna's voice was the voice Benjen followed, that guided him through the world, that echoed in his ears over and over.[Lyanna's life, through the eyes of her little brother.]





	i can't move the mountains for you

**Author's Note:**

> For Abel, even if he'll probably never read it.

 

Benjen was nine when Old Nan told him, over boiling pots of stewed dinner meat:

“Y'know, little lord, your lady sister Lyanna used to talk with you when you were in your mother's belly”.

(Old Nan never needed a specific cue to tell any story. She simply filled every silence with the past, whether it was the past of the Starks, or the First Men thousands and thousands of years before, or tales about wolfs, and monsters, and other terrible things, that Benjen absolutely adored).

He waited – he was always particularly good at waiting. 

“Not exactly talking, no”. She went on, throwing sliced carrots into a large iron pot, and then going back to efficiently cut green cabbage leaves. It wasn't a habit of her to cook. Lately she's been bumping into walls and furniture, especially when it was dark, and Benjen thought it would be useful to stay close, just in case. “She was too little for that... She only babbled. She was learning how to walk... fell all the time, but never cried”. The cabbage found its way to the cauldron; Old Nan was looking for something, fumbling among the kitchen utensils and pots, opening covers to smell them. “But every time she was around your Lady mother, she would be embracing her belly, speaking things that only made sense to herself. And you, maybe. You seemed to like it. She would scream of joy any time you kicked.”  
“Do you need any help?” he asked kindly, but not completely serious (because, you see, Benjen always seemed to be jesting, even when he didn't _mean_ to. It was like his internal world were made of endless funny remarks about things around him. For this very reason he was a light presence and yet, somewhat mysterious; impenetrable, but not solemn, like his older brother Ned. Ned has always been winter. Benjen was spring – the first flower among snow, a secret for those who find it.)  
“Why, boy. Are you saying that I don't know my own kitchen? I have been in this castle longer than your name days, and those of your sister, and of your two brothers together!” And she stopped at the smell of a fine reddish-yellow powder; tasted it with the tip of her tongue, sucking a dirty finger from the seasoning, and smiled. “Here. I knew it was here”.

Old Nan threw a good amount of whatever it was into the cauldron, which exuded a sweet, strong, delicious scent. Benjen almost smiled to himself. It was her kitchen indeed and, in some odd way, her castle; she was in fact as much a part of Winterfell as the stones around him, as the snow, or the godswood, though the statement about her long stay sounded a little bit doubtful to him.

Years later, Benjen would remember that night – he would remember the smell of the meat and vegetables and seasoning that Old Nan had finally found and that he, unfortunately, never knew the name. He would remember that conversation, most of all, and how her words only made sense when it was too late: the obvious truth that Lyanna's voice was the voice he first recognized and eventually followed, that guided him through the world, that echoed in his ears over and over, before he even came to be, before everything. 

**Author's Note:**

> All the titles (fic and chapters) comes from “Timshel”, by Mumford and Sons.


End file.
